


Calenture

by Florentium



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Chair Sex, Cooking, Domestic, First Time, Gender Roles, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Content, prewar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6578101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/pseuds/Florentium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heatwave has had Steve and Bucky cooped up in the tenement for the past couple of days and Steve is starting to wear out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

July was the worst of it. In the summer New York swelters like a carcass, stone dead and quiet, dry like a bone. The high noon sun bakes the pavements and the brownstones, radiating heat lines until the whole horizon dissolves away. It was like the world had stopped spinning and with it went the wind. The dead air settled like sand, seeping down to the dusty earth, filling and expanding into every crevice, every shade, every refuge until there was nowhere in five boroughs that was comfortable. Cicadas whined that lonesome tinny croak from sunup to sundown and the odd firefly would zip between clotheslines and streetlights at dusk but otherwise the city was without any of the common signs of life.

In Brooklyn, Bucky sits on the open windowsill of Steve's fifth floor walk-up, smoking a cigarette and watching the sun cross the narrow alley between their building and the next, carving out a high blue streak of sky. The brick and peeling wood are warm to the touch but not unpleasant, soaking in the hour of direct noontime sunlight they were afforded. In the street below, children play in the spray of an open fire hydrant while their mothers gossip and fan themselves in the shade of a porch across the road. The faintest stir of a breeze moves in the alley, touching the linens hanging from the many clotheslines, cooling the sweat running down Bucky's throat. He smiles to himself, bending a knee up on the sill to rest his arm on.

Inside the apartment, Bucky has the gramophone playing softly. The opening low notes of a clarinet swoon in the crackling static.

For a better part of the week he and Steve had been trying to outwit the heat, or rather, Bucky watched out for Steve as he combated the worst of it. Steve had spent the better part of Saturday morning laying flat on his back in front of an open window with a cold pack on his face. Bucky would come bring him a new one every half hour and toss the old one back in the icebox. A few summers ago Steve had overexerted himself and wound up housebound with heatstroke and Bucky refused to have it happen again, no matter how much Steve protested to being mother-henned. 

Bucky actually quiet likes the summer days, the serenity of the drowsy city. Not a whole lot of things could make New York City herself stand so still. Even sitting in the open windowsill, dressed in an A-shirt and his lousiest pair of slacks the heat was staggering, downright oppressive. Everything took extra effort. Walking, talking, sleeping, eating, blinking. Even breathing was an ordeal when the air was hot like steam, sticking to his lungs and in his throat.

This morning, though, they had been dang near out of food so Steve had elected to run down to the corner store and pick them up something for dinner, insistent that he was fine and that if Bucky didn't let him leave the apartment he was going to start acting like an invalid. Bucky had relented and wished him safe passage to the end of the block, only mostly joking.

For Bucky, it was a chance to take a cigarette break, but also a way for him to keep track of the time. If Steve wasn't back by the time he finished his smoke, Bucky had to go out looking for him.

Beside him, the white linen curtains billow like an ocean wave as the breeze kicks up. Nothing in the world, thought Bucky, had ever been as sweet and soft as a breeze in the summer. Grainy trumpets ring over the gramophone speaker in swing time and the happy shrieks of children ring up in the cloudless, endless sky. Bucky exhales a lungful of smoke, content. 

Back on the far wall of the apartment, outside the front door the wooden stairs groan under approaching footfalls. The front door swings open and Steve waddles in, a little out of breath, and a brown paper bag tucked into one arm. 

"We should go out tonight," Bucky says, tapping his ash out the window. "Spend the night on the town."

Steve frowns at him, unimpressed. "I think you should find a new girl to entertain yourself if you're so bored already."

"Aww, c'mon, buddy," Bucky implores, stubbing his cigarette out on the windowsill. He leaps to his feet and turns the volume dial on their rusty old gramophone up. A chorus of horns swells to fill the sticky air of the room. The daytime heat put some kind of fire into him, made him was to run to the down to the boardwalk and swim across the Atlantic. Steve never understood. Summer heat only ever made him sick and tired.

"There's a dance hall up in Queens," Bucky suggests, as he two-steps to the beat over to the kitchenette, his beer in one hand and a goofy grin on his face. "We can take the Crosstown on over tonight. I'll teach you how to Balboa."

"We don't got money for the subway, Buck," Steve admonishes, ignoring Bucky's performance as he set his heavy paper bag of groceries down on the linoleum table of their little kitchenette. "And there ain't no way you'd get me to go to Queens even if we did."

"Don't test me. You got no clue what I might be capable of," Bucky teases as he spins on the sole of his wingtips and flourishes. Steve rolls his eyes.

They own three records between them, one of Artie Shaw's band from '35, Benny Goodman's recording of "Sing, Sing, Sing" to satisfy Buck's current rampant love affair with swing music, and an old record of ragtime melodies from the turn of the century that had once belonged to Steve's mother. It was dated, but Steve doesn't care. It reminds him of simpler times.

"Reminds me of what my old man would have on in the house while he bitched about Prohibition," Bucky would say whenever Steve commandeered the gramophone for an evening.

Bucky's father was a character, one of those men who seemed to have been born old and cranky with nicotine stained fingernails and frown lines in his face. Complained about the Progressives for twenty non-stop years and now that the Volstead Act had been amended, he complained on end about the rampant drunkeness of the current youth. Once he finally died he would probably complain to God's face for keeping him waiting. He had been an endless source of amusement to the boys growing up.

Someone on the record wails on a trumpet while cymbals crash. That music was all too much noise for Steve, too much too fast. Dancing to it, from what he'd seen, seemed downright unsafe. No wonder Bucky was smitten.

Bucky slides up behind him and gives him a one-armed bear hug, peering over the top of Steve's head to see what sort of food he had brought home, "You get fresh bread for the beans, pal?"

"Yeah, Buck," Steve produces a loaf from the bag and hands it over his shoulder to Bucky. "It's gotta last two weeks so don't go crazy with the beans and toast."

"'Course not, honey," Bucky jabs fondly as he stores the loaf in the breadbox on the counter.

"And put the milk in the icebox, while you're at it," Steve pulls two glass quart bottles out of the bottom of the bag. "It'll go rancid in this heat in no time."

"And you had the nerve to call me 'mother hen'."

"Put the dang milk away, Barnes." 

Bucky kisses the top of his head as he reaches over Steve to pluck the two bottles of milk from the tabletop, "Aye aye, sir."

Steve swats him away but can't hold in an affectionate smirk. It was an impossibility, he thought, to ever be mad or stay mad at Bucky Barnes. He defied contempt. He had more charm than a salesman and all the heart that one lacked. His smile could disarm of the hardest man; Steve had seen it done.

He stores the last of the cans into the cupboard before shrugging off his suspenders and wiping his brow on his sleeve. If his mother were alive to see it, she would scold him.

The song's tempo kicks up over the gramophone as the band built towards their crescendo. Horns wail as drums kept the rapid tempo. 

"Any signs of life out there?" Bucky asks as he indulges in the cool air of the open icebox for longer than is strictly necessary.

"It's pretty dead," Steve huffs as he undoes his collar with a sigh of relief. "Heat's getting worse." 

"You still feeling okay?"

Steve groans as he sinks into the threadbare armchair by the open window. Kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks he put his bare feet up on the windowsill, wiggling his toes in the weak breeze. His thin shoulders heave with the effort and he tries to conceal his stuttering breathing from Bucky by clearing his throat. Sweat had slicked his hair back comically and no doubt his cheeks are far too red. The breeze, though, was heaven-sent.

"I'm _fine_ , Bucky, please," Steve relaxes, closing his eyes. "I've survived worse."

"You always do," came Bucky's cheery voice from the kitchenette. 

Over the gramophone speaker the song was winding to a close and the puckering white noise of the needle is all that filled the room. The planks in the floor creak as Bucky pads around in his shoes -- he's wearing leather shoes in this heat, the madman -- pouring himself and Steve each a glass of water. The footfalls creep closer and then stop, and Steve can feel Bucky looking at him.

He cracks an eye open and Bucky is leaning over him, close, with a hand on either armrest. Bucky is always quite literally looking down at him with those heavy-lidded eyes, considering him like a cat considers cream, but there's something delicate in his gaze, something reserved and held back. It's disconcerting. Bucky never keeps secrets. 

He smiles, soft and genuine. "C'mon, it ain't so bad, is it? Having me look out for you all the time?"

It's uncomfortable, under that sly, scrutinizing stare, like Bucky could see right through him. Steve looks away. "I don't need no one looking out for me."

" _Bullshit_ , you don't." Bucky Barnes calls them like he sees them. "Everybody's got something."

"Well, not _all the time._ I'm nobody's charity case, Buck. You don't gotta worry over me day in and day out like you're my wife or something."

"Of course I don't gotta," Bucky scoffs, but he smiles again and gripped the back of Steve's neck like he does when he's making a point to be serious, "but I do anyways, pal."

They eat sparingly that night. The heat has killed most of their appetite, so they split a can of peaches and some rolls from the bakery, a little stale, but sweetened and softened enough by the peach syrup. The summer dusks are long, casting tall, narrow shadows through the windows and up on the ceilings, and the sun resists setting until well into the evening, nearly nine o'clock. Mercifully, a stronger breeze rolls in from the East River as the sky yellows and cools, stirring through their open windows. They eat their peaches and listen to the radio in the golden evening.

Both of them indulge in a bath, thankful for the opportunity to scrub the grime and sweat off their bodies and to cool down. They split the bathwater, letting it grow comfortably lukewarm. Steve bathes first, soaking in the soft, cool touch of water against his heat-flushed skin, rinsing his hair and letting the fat drops run pleasantly down his back and neck. Relief spills over him, from the top of his head down to the ends of his limbs as he soaks. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the rim of the tin basin. Outside in the streets below, cicadas continue their hypnotic drone into the sunset.

Afterwards, he gets up and towels himself off, being careful to not get the tile wet, and slips into the an old cotton shirt and drawstring pants he'd left neatly folded on the radiator. They're big on him, but so is everything. Steve catches his reflection in the streaky wall-mounted mirror as he pulls his arms through the short sleeves, his pale, bony chest, damp with bathwater and laced with blue veins. The shirt is entirely too large for him and it hangs shapeless off one shoulder, below his collarbone that's angled sharply above his ribs.

It stung. It never didn't, the mild wave of disgust at the sight of his body. A childhood bout with scarlet fever had left his heart weak and hearing dodgy and one too many hungry winters had made his bones brittle. His skin is pale, except when it's not, easily flushed with exertion and even more easily bruised. One malady after another. Sometimes it felt like a losing ordeal. He couldn't defend himself from his own body. How could he ever possibly hope to defend himself from the world?

It was futile to be upset, and so Steve was all the more. He huffs and shakes the water out of his hair. 

"Bath's all yours," he says to Bucky as he walks out barefoot into the small open room with a towel over his shoulders. A new song is on the radio, a low and moody clarinet melody now, much more appropriately mellow for the evening. 

Having been sprawled out in the armchair by the window, Bucky hops up onto his feet, kicking off his shoes. "Thanks, Stevie. You heading to bed?"

"Might as well," Steve scrubs at his damp hair with the towel.

"No hogging space tonight," Bucky jokes from the bathroom before closing the door. 

There is still a faint, fiery glow out over the city when Steve lays down over top his quilts. The evening is rapidly cooling and the breeze had been picking up but it was still much too hot to consider sleeping under wool. He lays on his side, facing the wall like he had when he was a kid, feeling small.

He's drifting near sleep by the time Bucky comes in with a towel around his shoulders and his damp hair spiky and ridiculous. The thin mattress bobs like the deck of a ship as he sits, stripping off his shirt and hucking it into a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Steve grimaces but says nothing. He'll start the washing in the morning.

He shifts around to make space for Bucky, turning over and putting his back against the wall. Bucky rolls over and collapses face down against the bed with a satisfied sigh. 

Bucky, hair mussed and face half buried in the pillow, casts an arresting, thoughtful look at Steve, grinning into the sheets. 

"I'd make a good wife for you," he says, quiet and contemplative, like he'd thought about it for a while.

Steve scoffs, "You're hilarious, Buck." 

"Nah, I mean it. I could even learn to cook, like, really cook, nice and classy. Can you imagine? Me slaving away in the kitchen baking all day. I'd do the washing, learn to sew and mend your shirts and jackets. Pack you a brown paper bag lunch before work." He laughs.

Steve finds it an odd fancy and he cocks an eyebrow, "Yeah sure, Bucky, you'd be some homemaker."

"Damn right, I would be. Now that'd be a sight, me in aprons and a string of pearls. Wouldn't be so bad to come home to, would it? Handsome man like you could do a lot worse than me, Rogers."

They both crack with laughter at the image but the silence afterwards is heavy, conspicuous, as the playful banter suddenly sounds like something else entirely. When the joke dies, they avoid looking at each other. Steve rolls onto his back, arms folded up over his head, studying the splits in the ceiling.

"If I were your wife I'd make you take me out dancing in Queens, though," Bucky informs after a few moments of quiet slide by, and both he and Steve crack up again.

"That smart mouth of yours is going to land you in trouble one day." Steve jabs a bony elbow out at Bucky's ribs.

"Like it hasn't already," Bucky seizes Steve's wrist with that catlike quickness, trapping him. "And you're one to talk to me about getting into trouble, Rogers."

Steve rolls his eyes and tries to yank his arm free but Bucky holds tight to it, smirking like a tease, trying to provoke Steve into a match he knows Steve can't win. He would never hold back against Steve, not in horseplay and not in anything else. Bucky has been stronger than Steve their whole lives, they both know it, but worse than anything, worse than losing, Steve hates being allowed to win.

He manages to wring a hand free and flings it up overhead out of Bucky's reach. Bucky swats at it halfheartedly and grumbles something about being a cheater and a brat before cuffing Steve on the ear in an act that turns out to be more of affectionate tap.

They settle for a moment in the quiet again. Somehow they've ended up closer than they meant to and their hair is slick from the heat and bathwater. Steve is staring sidelong past Bucky's shoulder to the far wall on the opposite side of the room. It makes them seem less close than they are. Bucky's hand is still resting along Steve's jaw, and his thumb stroking over his cheekbone is entirely too gentle, entirely too intimate resting like a paperweight and Steve is looking everywhere but Bucky's face, hoping against hope that he didn't look as timid as he feels.

"Will you forgive me for this?" comes Bucky's question, low and sincere, and before Steve can reply or ask or even look at him Bucky closes the space between them and kisses him chastely on the mouth, just once. It's soft, delicate, with Bucky's fingers curling gently in his hair.

In the next moment Bucky whips away like he's been burned, breathing hard, and the shock in his eye matching Steve's own. 

He swallows, hand tight on Steve's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he finally manages, jaw working, "I shouldn't have done that." 

Blood is pounding in Steve's ears like it does when he's about to faint. He's overcome with a sense of vertigo, of spinning, like he's just run much too fast, just been in a fistfight that ended too soon. Poor Bucky, rather, looks overcome with guilt, shamefaced, like he's about to start apologizing again and never stop. A reckless thrill seeps into Steve like a stampede under his rib cage. He can't articulate it, can't describe it, and against all better judgment he might posses he reaches for Bucky and kisses him back. 

Bucky curses and moans against his mouth. Steve doesn't know what he's doing, and it shows. He doesn't know what it is he's wanting, he just wants it again, wants whatever he felt in Bucky's brow pressed against his, Bucky's fingertips in his hair, the closeness, he's had a taste of it and now he feels like he'll die if he doesn't get more.

Bucky's so responsive to Steve's blind grappling. After a second he crawls over top of Steve, a knee on either side, and cradles Steve's neck in both hands, kissing him again.

They break away, both panting, both locking eyes with the same bewildered expression.

"Buck?" his voice is so much smaller than he wanted, "Bucky what is this?"

A gust rolls through the open window, chilling the sweat on their bodies and they shiver together. Protectively, Bucky folds over him, holding him close by the shoulders, brow to brow. 

He looks up at Steve with that heartbreaker smile. "It's whatever you want, Steve," he chuckles, helpless. "I don't know anymore than you."

Steve looks away. The shock and frenzy is fading fast, leaving a sour doubt in the pit of his stomach. "I don't want your pity, Buck. Anyone else, anyone else I could have that, but not you."

"Hey. Hey c'mon. I would never." He sounds hurt by the implication.

"Then what?" Steve feels his face burning with shame and anger. "Then what is this? What are we doing, here? You think-- you really think I'm like that?" He had seen it for himself enough times, rampant during Fleet Week, sights of indecent men, effeminate fairies and sleek, gruff wolves.

"I know what you're like, Steve. Think maybe, I might know better than anyone."

"So that's it? That's why you think no girl will look at me, why no one will touch me? You said all that stuff about being my wife because, what, you gotta take care of me?"

To his horror, Bucky laughs, and Steve has half a mind to shove him off and make him sleep on the floor. But he looks up back at Steve again with a smile so full of affection that Steve feels unworthy. 

"Always such a tough guy," Bucky smiles at him. "You don't always gotta be on the defense, Stevie. Look around, nobody's fightin' you here."

Steve's throat knots up. He has no reply to that. It's dark now in their room, dark enough that Steve is grateful to be hidden. He feels silly, like a reprimanded child. Years of hard knocks had taught Steve to assume the worst in people, even his loved ones, but accusing his truest friend of mocking him that way, he felt mean and cruel for that. 

Bucky rocks forward, pressing his mouth to Steve's neck, warm and wet and obscene.

"I said that stuff," he pants between kisses, "because I meant it. Every word. And it ain't 'cause you're small, and it ain't 'cause I _have_ to take care you. It's just because I thought it was nice. Is that so hard to believe?"

Steve squirms as Bucky kisses the hollow of his throat. It's so delicate, soft and tender, it's makes Steve's heart beat like a drum. But it's good, it all feels so good and he doesn't want it to stop. The heat is outrageous, suffocating. He jolts when Bucky's hands slip under his shirt, ghosting up his flanks. 

"May I?" Bucky asks gently, mouth against his ear. Steve catches his breath for a moment and then nods, and Bucky strips him out of his shirt. Chilly air stirs against his chest and he shudders, dizzy again.

Astride him, Bucky leans back onto his knees, devouring the sight of Steve. He bites his lip as he traces Steve's ribs with his fingertips, sweeping up from his sides to where they join together at the sternum, prominent below his throat.

Bucky marvels as he spreads his palms over Steve's rib cage, his thumbs pressed together just below Steve's breastbone and watches with an obscene gape as he nearly can circle his hands around to Steve's spine. The skin between his fingertips is blushing red. Steve's breath staggers against the firm grip and Bucky watches his body work, captivated.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, brows knit, like he can't believe his own eyes, like he can't believe his own voice.

Steve shrugs his shoulders, feeling embarrassed and pretending not to. "You're ridiculous."

"Then call me a liar."

"You're a liar, James Barnes."

Bucky laughs softly. He plants his elbows on either side of Steve's head, sagging heavy into his shoulders. "That's okay, you don't have to believe me. I know it's true."

"Stubborn jackass," Steve mutters.

"Yeah, that too."

Steve snorts beneath him but doesn't say anything, looking out the window again as the nightime breeze stirs through the curtains, and Bucky keeps his hands to himself. 

"Can I try you?" Steve asks a moment later.

No hiding that smirk. "You wanna kiss me?"

Steve considers again for another moment. "I think so, yeah." And Bucky can't help but to brighten, smiling like a fool in the dark.

Steve leans up and kisses him, slower than before, a little more anxious but no less bold. Bucky smiles against him, his mouth soft and warm. Steve can taste the cigarette Bucky had snuck while he was out that afternoon. It sends shivers down his limbs and Steve can feel this powerful want stirring inside of him. It's startling. He's never felt that kind of plain and immodest wanting before. It's feels greedy, and he's scandalized to notice that he doesn't care. Steve wants with such force and focus he's ready to give himself over to any sort of depravity Bucky might ask of him. His heart trembles and pitches under his ribs and he is sure Bucky can feel it because he's pressed flush against his chest, skin to skin. His fingertips prod softly at his neck and back and Bucky angles his mouth against Steve's. It's delicate and tender like nothing between them has ever been. Between banter and barbs and the occasional fight there's nothing they share that could be called romance, plenty of intimacy but never sweetness. But this is sweet and that makes it strange and unknown.

Steve pulls away, finally, because he's run out of breath. He drops his head back onto the pillow. Over him, Bucky still hasn't managed to shed the goofy grin on his face and Steve finds he's breaking out into a smile also, despite himself. They laugh again at the sight of each other, at the ridiculous sight of themselves slouching together like teenagers in an alley.

After a few breaths, Bucky leans down and kisses his smile, his damp hair falling into their eyes. Together their kisses grow deeper and Steve gasps when Bucky nips at his bottom lip and smirks like the devil.

Emboldened by this, Steve takes hold of one of Bucky's hands and throws it between his legs. That certainly knocks the smile off Bucky's face and he looks between their bodies and then soberly back at Steve. It was insane and impulsive and Steve's not entirely sure what he's asking for but he's hoping Bucky will know enough to interpret what he wants. 

"You sure about that?" Bucky asks, though he can't keep his fingertips from wandering, tracing the inside of Steve's thigh.

"Yeah," Steve exhales, narrow chest heaving. He wants Bucky to do it before he changes his mind. "If you are, then, yeah, I am."

Bucky bites his lip and nods. 

He works his hand underneath Steve's waistband and Steve gasps at the touch, despite himself. It's so odd, at first, that it can't really feel good, just strange. He's never had anyone touch him there and every feeling is a new one. Bucky's touch teases him, tracing his fingertip up the insides of Steve thighs for a beat, two, giving Steve the chance to change his mind.

But he doesn't, and that strong hand moves over his cock and Steve moans out loud, eyes fluttering. It hadn't occurred to him how it would feel, Bucky's rough fingertips and broad palm, touching and stroking. It's startling. It's _good_. It feeds that pit of abased want that's been growing in his chest. Bucky goes slow, trying to determine Steve's tempo, watching his reaction for cues. Steve jitters and squirms with this new feeling but at last settles, seeming to finally come out of his own head and surrendering to the current in his body, rolling his hips, fisting and unfisting his hands in the quilts. The swells of pleasure build steady and even and though he fights it he can't keep the little gasps and groans bubbling out of his lungs. Occasionally he can feel Bucky's lips on his chest and neck and the fingers on him a little more firm or soft. It's pleasant to be so adrift in his own body. He didn't know it could be so soothing.

He loses track of his edges. His heart feels solid and heavy in his chest while he's only vaguely aware of his limbs and where they are, snaking over blankets, skins, hands. From the inside out he feels warm, syrupy, as though he might melt away and nothing has ever sounded more appealing. Steve tosses his head back and sighs happily.

"You really are a sight, Stevie." 

He can hear Bucky's voice, breathy and close but he can't will his eyes to open. For a moment he's horrified about being seen in such a state, indulging in such base deviancy. But it all feels so good, good enough in this moment that Steve doesn't care. It dawns on him that he would want it to be Bucky before he would want it to be anyone else. Now, it would be only Bucky who had ever seen him like this, ever done this to him, the only one allowed to know, and that made it seem so precious and rare, something of value.

The strength of the current winds up, pulling him away, deeper, and his hips tremble, canting into Bucky's touch. Bucky's hand quickens with him, his grip firmer, guiding him through the strong pull in his bones. They're close to each other, now, maybe closer than they've ever been to each other before in their lives. Bucky presses his sticky brow against Steve's, breathing hard, his free hand carding through Steve's hair over and over. 

Steve finally opens his eyes to look for him, hoping to see him, but he fails to muster the effort to focus his eyes this close and he only sees vague shapes, suggestive lines and shadows. Bucky's mop of dark hair, bowed forward and plastered with sweat, the shameless redness of his panting mouth, the tense cords in his neck rising and falling with his breath. Steve throws his arms over Bucky's sturdy back and holds him as tight as his strength will allow. He feels sweat stream down Bucky's ribs.

"You okay, pal?" Bucky pants, strained. "Steve? You alright?"

With effort, Steve finds his voice, "Fine. I'm fine. Don't stop, please. Don't--"

The grip between his legs firms and his words are lost in a throaty moan. He digs his nails into the lines of Bucky's back as a quieting swell of pleasure rises in his belly again, pressing on his heart. He's falling, sinking. He's sure of it, against all his better sense, and he gasps and reaches to keep from tumbling, catching Bucky's hair under his nails.

He calls Bucky's name. At least, he means to, but the breath is rushing out of his lungs all at once and he isn't certain that he says anything at all. The current pulls him over, like the crest of a wave, and now Steve really is certain that he's falling. It wouldn't matter, though, because Bucky grips him back, that guiding hand on him strong and steady. 

Steve comes before he realizes he would, sudden and brutal. The pleasurable vice in his belly releases and he can feel his whole body unwind like a garment thread, relaxing apart. His arms fall away and his head slumps back onto the pillow.

Sagging over him, Bucky groans and shudders. He nips at Steve's neck with his teeth, like a well-disciplined hunting dog, fighting every wild, ancient urge not to devour its master's game. Instead he breathes heavy for a minute, warm on Steve's skin, before kissing the ridge of his collarbone, tracing the contour with his tongue and sucking hard enough to leave something of a bruise, wine-coloured on Steve's paper-white skin. Bucky's shoulders are twitching from exhaustion, not free to fall into Steve but not free to pull away.

A minute at a time, Steve begins to regain coordination in his body as he comes down from his orgasm, find his fingers and toes, then his limbs. The silence has gone on too long and now the air is tense and heavy. He lays flat on the quilts, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling, too afraid that if he looks at Bucky, Bucky will be looking back at him. When he thinks to move again, he drops his hand onto Bucky's head, combing through his damp hair. It's odd to touch someone like this and he's never done it before, so Steve hopes he's doing it right.

Something is right about it, because Bucky is purring against his chest as he wipes the mess from his hand onto the discarded bath towel. He's breathing hard, steadying, arching into Steve's fingers on his scalp, legs flexing over the quilts. For as lost as he was a minute ago Steve is suddenly hyper-aware of all the places where they're bodies are touching, all the new points of contact he's never felt before, the ways Bucky is touching him and he's touching Bucky. 

"What should I-- what do you want me to do?" he asks in a small voice.

Bucky shifts against him, propping himself against Steve's side with a leg thrown over his knees, his head resting on the curve of Steve's shoulder. "Just let me enjoy the moment, will you?"

"I don't know how to-- I mean, I _know_ , but, I-- I've never--"

"Steve, hush." Bucky smirks and leans in to kiss Steve's throat. "Don't ruin the mood."

"You call that a _mood_ , you cad?" Steve tries to joke like he's not just committed sodomy. "I've been more romanced by radio ads."

"Well, gosh, I won't try so hard next time, then." Bucky tries to laugh, but the tremor in his voice betrays his nervousness. 

By the time either of them realize what he's said, it's too late to take it back. _Next time_. Steve isn't sure he'll survive this time, never mind future ones. Bucky laying on top of him is still hotter than hell itself, and now his heart is racing and there's sweat rolling down his neck where Bucky's breathing and Steve feels like he's just ran ten city blocks. The enormity of what just happened feels something like panic.

On top of him, Bucky shifts, fussing over laying too much weight on Steve. He's panting and sweating and burns like a furnace and as he shifts again against Steve it becomes apparent how hard Bucky is. 

It scares him, for a moment, because Steve hasn't got a clue what to do.

They lay together as Bucky enjoys his moment, and Steve catches his breath. He can feel the tension in Bucky's arms around him, the heat radiating off his body. Sweat itching on his skin becomes unbearable and he squirms. Bucky tenses, sighing heavy against Steve's bare chest. Steve gasps. His body is suddenly alien to him; he's sensitive in places he never imagined.

Gradually, after several minutes of silence, Bucky starts to shift, rolling his hips, slow but firm. He might not even realize he's doing it at first, but Steve can definitely feel the hard line of Bucky's cock against his thigh and it chills him. It's so apparent, laying here now, how much stronger Bucky is than him, how much more powerful and steady, how Bucky's body utterly dwarfs his own. He thinks of all the girls Bucky's ever had under him like this, and he feels lewd and girlish himself. 

He twists and rolls his body against Bucky, trying to imagine what those girls would do, wishing he were someone with more experience. It feels silly and maybe a little sick but Steve is so keyed up that even the shame of it only excites him a little more.

"Don't be doing that unless you mean it," Bucky huffs, his grip tightening, "a guy like me could forget himself."

"Yeah, well, I ain't scared of you, tough guy." And Steve does his best to sound it, despite the shivers running through him. On an impulse, he bites his lip and bats his eyelashes at Bucky and feels ridiculous. But Bucky's eyes darken and his mouth goes slack in response and the rocking of his hips picks up.

"Look at you, kitten," he mutters, running a hand down Steve's body. "Just lay back a second. Just like that."

He hoists himself above Steve on his forearm and knees, propping his hand on the pillow by Steve's hair. Bucky reaches into his own pants and takes his cock in his other hand. All the daring and boldness rushes out of Steve as he watches, breath staggering in his throat. He meets Bucky's eyes timidly, rolling his shoulder and kissing the wrist planted by his head. Bucky groans with a wicked smile and the rhythm causes the barest rocking of the mattress beneath them.

The prolonged eye contact makes Steve blush fiercely and he drops his gaze. "What'd'ya want me to do for you, Buck? Don't leave me twistin'."

"Don't do nothing," Bucky replies in a low voice, "just lay like you are for me."

There's nothing steady or gentle about the way Bucky touches himself, nothing like the way he had touched Steve. It's frantic and hurried. Not a tender or loving thing but something much more primal and desperate. It makes the bottom of Steve's stomach drop out. 

They watch each other, breath and bodies falling out of sync as Bucky picks up his pace. There's such an awkward vulnerability in being watched like this, Steve thinks. He feels like he should be doing something more, for Bucky, so Steve tries biting his lip again and writhes a little against the quilts, stretching his warm muscles, recalling the way Bucky's hands felt on him. Above him, Bucky gasps, speeding up on his hand. It's strangely powerful, to be able to reduce him to needy moans with just a glance. Steve likes the way it feels.

With a rough cry, Bucky comes quickly over Steve's stomach. He shudders and groans, grip going slack and his eyes sliding shut. His back arches and his shoulders roll and Steve's mouth goes dry watching Bucky unwind above him. His curved shoulders and strong arms melt in the haze of afterglow, every knot unwinding and every stiff joint soothed as Bucky's body unfurls. He shudders and his limbs go boneless, and he sags against Steve's body, laying his forehead against his shoulder, panting hot in the dark. Steve's face flushes. 

And it is hot. Both of them are coated in sweat. It's late, far past midnight, but the air blowing in through the open curtains is still muggy. Their breath, so close to each other's skin, is hot. It grows to become smothering and unbearable as Steve comes back to his body. The discomfort grows and he itches. The crowded stuffiness. The mess on his stomach. It all sinks in, abruptly, the way Bucky had marked him like that.

All that bathwater, wasted, Steve scolds himself.

Anything not to think about what they'd just gone through with. The moment one of them spoke or moved, they'd have to go forward in a life where this had happened. This night could never be undone. Maybe neither of them were ready for it, such a momentous upheaval of their quiet little lives, their plain and simple friendship. Steve had wanted it. It felt good at the time. But everything feels good in the moment. And now it has suddenly become apparent to him how much sex can matter.

"Shit," Bucky says by his ear, after a long minute of silence, looking down at Steve's chest, "let me clean you up."

He sits up off of Steve and reaches for his discarded towel. He wipes down Steve's belly, quickly, his face burning red. He hadn't meant to do that to Steve, to hold him down and come over his body like he was a trade boy picked up from the Navy Yard. How disgusting. He hadn't meant for _any_ of this.

He doesn't look at Steve. Outside, the yellow streetlights buzz in the darkness, and the occasional car headlights motor past, but there's not much light to see by. It doesn't matter, though. Bucky can picture the look on Steve's face so easily he may as well be onstage on Broadway. His face flushed, lips parted slightly the way he does when's trying to catch his breath without being obvious about it. The bangs of hair displaced, falling into his eyes. 

Bucky heaves himself up off the bed, balling the soiled towel anxiously, and walks to the laundry hamper by the dresser on the far wall. He drops the dirty towel in.

Steve can't really see much in the darkness. His eyes aren't too good at the best of times, but he still watches Bucky devotedly. He follows every line of him in the dark room, the way the pale yellow streetlamp light hits his body. Even the way Steve looks at him is different now.

Returning to the bedside, Bucky runs a hand through his own disheveled hair, still damp. "Are you-- Are you okay?"

"It's fine, Bucky. You didn't hurt me," Steve replies a little too quickly. 

"C'mon," Bucky whispers. He sounds wounded. "You know that's not what I meant."

Steve knows what he meant. 

The bed springs creek loudly as Bucky sits on the edge of the mattress, still not looking Steve in the eye. He sighs running both hands down his face. This whole thing might backfire on him. He'd given in and exposed Steve to something seedy and perverse. Maybe it was as bad as he worried it was.

Steve lays on his back, still, eyes following the cracks in the plaster ceiling. He is quiet for a few breaths before he decides on something.

"I liked it, Bucky, I did. And maybe that ain't wise of me, but I did like it. I don't have anything to forgive you for."

Bucky doesn't respond, but he exhales a breath he's been holding for some time. 

Instinctively, Steve wants to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but he stops himself. Maybe he's not allowed to anymore. It's something he would have done before, without a second thought, really. But touch between them means something different now. It seems like too much distance, the space next to him where Bucky is sitting just out of arm's reach. In all their years of sharing a bed, it had never once felt like they were burdened with _too much_ space with the two of them stacked together like cordwood. Even with Steve being as small as his is, finding a your own square inch to lay your head down was a task that sometimes drove the both of them to fights. But now it seems that there's no greater distance to Steve than the span between his hand on the quilts and Bucky sitting at the edge of the bed. 

"Does this mean you're a fairy?" Steve asks.

Bucky snorts, running a hand through his hair again, "I dunno, pal."

"All those lookers throwing themselves at you, and you rather take me to bed," Steve mumbles. "Should've known something was wrong with you, Barnes."

They both laugh, quiet and awkward but thankful that they still can joke together, and Bucky finally lays back down beside Steve. He must feel he's regained permission. Not everything is done for, at least, not if they can still laugh together.

With their heads side by side, they both fall quiet, looking up at the ceiling. Steve's hands fidget on the quilts. He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest stretch pleasantly, the heady afterglow of sex still warming his body. 

"Does that mean _I'm_ a fairy, then?"

"Nah," Bucky's quicker with that answer. "You're the most pigheaded son of a bitch I ever did meet, Rogers. You ain't no fairy. Don't say that."

Steve considers this. He's not sure he believes that.

It's not like Steve didn't know. He'd seen fairies before, walking down the street in pairs or groups, always well-dressed and stylish, even in the poorer alleyways of Brooklyn. They flocked to the all-night automats in the evenings, brushing shoulders with their less conspicuous dates, the sort of men that Steve wouldn't have suspected of having that inclination, had he not seen them so obviously enamoured in public.

Steve had never minded. They were pleasant enough people, if a little odd. And besides, it was something Steve had heard hissed behind his back, getting a rude shoulder knocked into his own on the sidewalk. The implication that he wanted men because he was small and dainty. It had always turned his stomach, that total strangers thought of him as that sort of man. But now he _is_ that sort of man. Maybe they had all been right, they had seen right through him. He didn't want all the horrible people in the world to be right about him.

"So you're gonna be my wife now? Gonna be sweet on me? Is that the plan?" Steve tries to sound flippant, but his voice cracks as he says it. The thought of it both excites him and scares him.

Bucky laughs and casts his eyes down, nervous. "Hell, Steve. I didn't go into this with any sort of plan."

Steve runs a hand over his own bare chest, feeling the hollows between his ribs, tracing the places Bucky had just kissed him.

Bucky turns his head and watches him for a moment before dropping his gaze. "Should I apologize or something?"

"Don't you dare."

Bucky knows that tone. The whole neighbourhood knows that tone. That's the tone of voice Steve Rogers takes when he's prepared to be a martyr over something. That tone means it is absolutely not up for debate. Bucky still feels like he should apologize, but Steve is nothing if not stubborn like a mule.

"I can sleep out in the chair if you want," he tries instead. "Give you the room, I mean. Figured you might want some space to think things over for yourself." Bucky tries to smile, but Steve only seems irritated.

"Will you cut it out? We've been sharing a bed since we were kids, Buck."

"Yeah, well, this isn't like any night when we were kids." 

Steve is obstinate. "If you wanna go, then go, but don't go on my account. It's still your bed, too."

With that he rolls over onto his side, facing the wall again. It feels childish, because it is, but he doesn't want Bucky to go. He doesn't want for anything to change now. But telling Bucky to stay, well, that might also mean something different now too.

Bucky does stay though, because it's clear he doesn't want to leave either, he just has it in his head that it's the honourable thing to do, somehow. He situates himself back on their bed, mattress dipping in the middle and he turns on his side. Still, he leaves a respectable margin of space between him and Steve. It's too hot to sleep too close anyways. 

"Okay, I take it back. I'm stayin'. We'll talk in the morning, okay, pal?"

"Okay, Buck."

"You mad at me?"

"No, Bucky."

"Good."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, they both sleep in, and it's Bucky who finally gets out of bed first. The movement stirs Steve to vague wakefulness, but Bucky's in the other room by the time he cracks an eye open. The bedroom is bright and plain in the eager morning sunlight, and aside from the rumpled towel in the laundry hamper there isn't a trace of what they'd done the night before. Unprepared for whatever conversation he and Bucky are about to have, Steve rolls back over and closes his eyes. 

Out their small open widow, people are getting on with their Sunday morning in the streets below. Newsies start hawking Sunday copies of the papers on corners. The odd car drives by. Packs of children, newly freed from church, squeal and stampede off in search of adventure before suppertime. 

At last feeling he's sulked enough, Steve gets up slow. It's a Sunday, and neither of them have anywhere to be for the morning. They've already missed church. Steve's heart shrinks a little bit at the realization. They had no plans to go, but some part of Steve always _means_ to go on Sunday. When he was still a boy, his mother attended Sunday mass at Saint Ann's with an unwavering regularity, bundling Steve up in three coats during the winter and making the trip on foot. 

Nowadays, Steve doesn't go to church all that much anymore. Not nearly as much, not since since his mother died. After her funeral, between work and classes and a winter spent housebound with pneumonia, it had been an easy thing to let go of, something from a past life.

Still, he remembers to say a quick prayer for his mother every Sunday he doesn't attend mass. It doesn't make him feel much better.

Besides, after last night, he shouldn't be anywhere near a church.

Steve stretches and groans and finally hauls himself out of bed, shrugging on his housecoat and old threadbare slippers. The room is already warming with midmorning summer sunlight.

In the other room, over in the kitchenette corner, Bucky is buttering toast in drawstring sweats and no shirt. Steve's throat goes dry. It's not unusual for Bucky to parade around the place half-dressed but Steve feels like he's just walked in on another man's wife changing. He almost covers his eyes. It's disorientating, because it's a sight he's seen a thousand times on a thousand days and it's suddenly so startling. He can see it plain as day, how Bucky's body had bowed over him the night before, looking over his toned arms that had held him still, his strong back. Bucky hasn't fixed his hair since his bath, and the slept-in waves fall into his face, disheveled and handsome. 

_Handsome_. Bucky is handsome. It had been just a true yesterday as it is today, but now even that observation felt sinister to Steve. It feels sneaky, leering at his best friend while his back is turned.

Steve clears his throat and Bucky flashes him a smile over his shoulder.

"Morning, pal. Coffee's ready."

There are two steaming mugs set on the table with a dish of sugar cubes next to them. Bucky takes an inordinate amount of sugar in coffee. Steve has always preferred his black. 

Steve sits in front of his mug and Bucky swings over with a plate of toast and half an orange and sets it down in front of him. Nothing looks appetizing to Steve. There's a sour, chilly anxiety brewing in his stomach instead. All this food is just more trouble to get through before whatever uncomfortable talk they're bound to have. Steve wraps his bony fingers around the warm ceramic mug. His hands and feet are always cold first thing in the morning, no matter the season.

Bucky slides into his own seat across the small table, setting his own plate down. He's is clearly trying to disarm Steve with breakfast and warm coffee. A happy distraction from the tension between them, it seems. Steve almost wishes Bucky would be awkward and avoidant instead, so that he would feel less ashamed for being so anxious.

Bucky reaches for his coffee mug. He drops three sugar cubes into his coffee and gives it a stir before taking his first sip. He scowls, and adds a fourth. Steve scoffs and shakes his head. 

"Might as well just drink a Coke in the morning, instead," Steve scoffs.

It's the first thing he's said, and Bucky beams at him. "You might be on to something, Rogers."

Steve smiles, small and gentle. He sighs and looks down at the food before him on the table. The tension in the room is still killing his appetite, so he sticks to sipping sparingly at his coffee. As he does he keeps his gaze on the radiator, the sunny morning sky outside the window, anything to keep from looking Bucky in the eye while they both pretend to be interested in breakfast. When Bucky starts on his second slice of toast, Steve still hasn't taken a bite out of his, and Bucky nudges him under the table with his knee. The touch is startling and Steve twitches, jolting a little in his seat.

When he looks back at Bucky, he's grinning at him with that famous smile that melts girls' hearts. Bucky quirks his head at Steve's plate, imploring him to eat. Obligingly, Steve takes a bite out of his toast. 

The quiet comes back. Steve chews his mouthful for what feels like forever. His mouth is dry and the bread feels mealy on his tongue. He grits and forces himself to swallow it, sticking at the back of his throat a little. Hastily, he downs the rest of his coffee and musters the courage to bring it up.

Steve closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the look of betrayal on Bucky's face. "I want to say something."

Bucky's stops in mid-chew. Steve can't stand the guilt and opens his eyes, too nervous to move. Bucky presses his mouth into a tense line and straightens his back, pushing his plate away. He washes down his final bite with a sip from his coffee and then places his mug down on the table, folding his bare arms on the surface in front of him. He looks down at the table and nods to himself. When he looks back up at Steve, there's a kindness behind his eyes. His face is soft and placid and it makes Steve's stomach swoop in a way it never has before.

Steve wants to talk, but he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He wants to tell Bucky how conflicted he is. He wants to ask if this is all some elaborate cruel joke, but he doesn't think he could take it if that were true. He wants to ask how long Bucky's wanted this from him. He wants to tell Bucky to take him to bed and to not let him out until he's mastered every curve of his body, the shape of his mouth, the texture of his skin, the smell of his hair. But he can't begin to say any of that. 

He hides his hands beneath the table, toying with the frayed edges of his housecoat sleeves. His fingers tremble as they anxiously unwind a thread from the seam. He tries again to speak, and Bucky waits, attentive, but Steve's words all fail him a second time. He feels like he's unwinding and he can't keep up with the things that are falling apart.

"God damn it," Steve's face crumples and he looks away, ashamed.

Since they were kids, Steve never took the Lord's name in vain. His mother would never allow such talk under her roof and even when Steve grew older and learned to master curse words with all the other troublemaker schoolboys, he always refrained from it, his mother's scandalized voice in the back of his head.

"Oh no, no, hey," Bucky is up and vaulting around the table, sliding to his knees next to Steve's chair. He holds his hands out to him, hesitating for a moment before reaching to touch his cheek.

"Aw, Steve," Bucky soothes, "you're killin' me. Don't look at me like that, pal."

"Last night," he starts, but his voice cracks and he squeezes his eyes shut, mortified. He drops his gaze to his hands in his lap and starts again. "Last night. Why did we do that?"

When Bucky tries to smile this time, it's far from charming, only sad.

"I wish I had a good reason, Steve, but all I've got is selfish ones." All the cheer is gone from his voice and now he sounds only heartbroken. 

Steve considers this. Somehow, the thought of Bucky wanting him like that is like a pin in his heart. It's a rush, like a fall, or a fight, and any pain of it is smothered completely by the thrill. Never in his life has someone said those things to him, wanted those things from him, wanted his body. His rib cage is tight around his lungs and he tries to take a steadying breath but instead he only shudders.

"Don't gotta say nothing," Bucky tries to assure him. "You ain't a queer. Course you're not."

It's painful to hear Bucky's dismissal. Steve opens his mouth to refute him, but nothing comes out, at a loss for how to explain himself. Steve doesn't think he's a queer, but after what they'd done yesterday, how can he rightly deny it. Both options feel like lying.

"It's not that, Bucky." Steve tries. "I don't care about that. Well, not really, I guess. I just don't know-- you could have anyone, queer or not. I don't know why you would choose me."

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. "You know we've been having this same argument since we were nine? You've got a martyr complex a mile wide, Steve, always have. Always trying to prove yourself to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that's ever said a mean word to you or looked at you wrong, but the second I got your back you don't want no help. Gotta do it on your own. And that's fine, Steve. S'fine that you don't need me. It's been that way since we were kids. I think, maybe, I might need you though."

Steve swallows. It's such a heartfelt confession, he doesn't trust himself to say anything back.

Bucky tries to joke, "So, what do I gotta do to make you believe me? Propose?"

Steve snorts, no longer on the verge of tears, at least. Bucky dares to smile a little.

"Kids used to call me that all the time back in the day," Steve starts, "queer, or fairy. 'Cause I was small, and the girls avoided me. And I hated it when they called me that, more than anything, because I couldn't do anything to show 'em up. I couldn't not be scrawny, and I couldn't make the girls like me. Couldn't prove that I wasn't. And after a while, I'd see those boys walking down to the St. George and I thought-- maybe they were right, about me. But I-- I didn't want them to be right."

Bucky bows his head, nodding but doesn't saying anything. It would wound Steve's pride even more to have Bucky pity him. 

"But-- it didn't _feel_... queer," Steve finishes lamely, "with you, last night. I know that's stupid to say now, after, but I didn't feel like a fairy. With you it felt good, and normal. Bucky, I never knew it could feel so good."

Bucky smirks and, to Steve's relief, breaks out into a smile. "All those boys down at the St. George have got to be on to something, Steve."

He laughs, Steve can't help it. 

They laspe back into a more comfortable silence this time. Bucky's hand on his knee no longer feels like a live grenade and Steve doesn't feel so embarrassingly sheepish. He's looking at his abandoned breakfast on the table and is about to go back to it with more enthusiasm when he notices Bucky staring up at him from the floor, eyes wide and kind.

"What?" Steve asks.

"Lemme kiss you?"

The way he says so earnest and disarming that Steve can't deny him. He sniffs and wipes his cheek with the hem of his sleeve, embarrassed by his outburst. It's ridiculous, this whole thing is ridiculous and he can't help but smile and laugh. He nods.

Bucky pushes up on his knees to kiss him, raising right up to Steve's face, looking at him with half-lidded eyes and smiling softly. He stops just shy of Steve's mouth, big eyes roving up and down, surveying him with a rapt curiosity. Steve shivers and lets his own eyes slid closed. It stuns him, makes him dizzy to see Bucky looking at him like that, with such hunger and desire. His heart pounds under his throat and he can feel Bucky panting against his cheek, the heat and closeness, can almost feel Bucky's own pulse in the air between them. Steve is proud of himself for being steady when Bucky's lips kiss the side of his face, once, twice, and then behind his ear, nosing into his hair. It sends chills up Steve's neck and he can't hold back a gasp.

"Could do it right for you, this time," Bucky croons softly, breath ghosting over Steve's bare neck. He moves his head and nuzzles Steve's temple. "Go slow. Warm you up nice and long. Give you the royal treatment."

Steve whimpers.

"That's it," says Bucky. "Sound good to you?"

"I don't-- I don't know if I can go again so soon, Buck."

"We can find out."

As he kisses the hollow of Steve's throat, Bucky snakes his hands into the front of Steve's housecoat, letting it fall open, fingers playing along his bare chest. He traces Steve's ribs over the threadbare cotton of his shirt, kissing each spot after he touches it. With each touch Bucky goes lower down Steve's body, curving his back down until he reaches the bottom hem of his shirt. When Bucky brushes his knuckles between Steve's legs, Steve hands fly forward to stop him, catching him on the shoulder.

"No, Buck," Steve gasps, breathless. His fingers dig hard into Bucky's shoulder, holding him back. "You don't gotta--"

Bucky doesn't move his head, but he flicks his eyes back up at Steve and smiles devilishly through his lashes. He runs his palm down Steve's arm, covering the hand on his shoulder with his own. His eyes slide shut and he breathes deeply for a moment, stroking Steve's knuckles with his thumb. 

Bucky wants to ask Steve if he's scared, but he knows that Steve would probably deck him if he did. 

"That's what I keep telling you, Steve," says Bucky fondly. "Of course I don't gotta."

Bucky sits up straight on his knees. Kneeling up like this, he's eye-to-eye with Steve seated in the kitchen chair. Bucky pins him there with his gaze, his eyes sharp with intent and focus. Without looking away, Bucky runs his hands up Steve's sleeves, griping him by both shoulders, rubbing little circles over the bone with his thumbs. They stare at one another for a minute. Bucky leans in and kisses him quickly once more and then jolts Steve back against the chair back, not violently, but with enough strength that Steve gasps. 

"There, you feel that?" Bucky's voice is low and demanding.

Steve needs a second to get a hold of himself, reigning the flutter in his chest at being held down. "I do."

"You know what that means?" Bucky squeezes his grip for emphasis. "That means nothing's gonna happen here that I don't want to happen." 

Steve exhales, trembling. That sick little thrill stars crawling up his spine again, the thrill of being held, being overpowered, and that must mean something but Steve doesn't want to examine it at the moment.

"And you see this?" Bucky continues, taking Steve's wrist and guiding his hand to the top of his head. He covers Steve's fingers with his own, closing them over his messy curls. "This means that nothing's gonna happen here that you don't want to happen. You got it?"

"Okay," Steve mutters, breathing deep. He exhales, calmer, "okay."

"That's it," Bucky grins and swallows. He releases his own grip on Steve's shoulders, running his hand his sides, down his ribs, pressing his thumb into Steve's hipbone. 

Reflexively, Steve applies the slightest pressure with his fingertips until Bucky's hair pulls tight on his head. It makes him feel powerful.

Bucky sits back on his knees, scanning down Steve's body. His eyes slide closed and he leans forward to kiss Steve's hip bone over his pants.

He wastes no time warming Steve up again. He shuffles Steve's shoulders out of his housecoat and pulls the shirt over his head. Bucky leans back and looks at him, his eye roving like a hungry stray dog. Chest exposed, Steve can't help but blush again and looks away. He's so unused to anyone seeing him unclothed, even Bucky, who has. He tries so hard to avoid reminders of his feebleness. Even last night, Steve had kept his shirt on, in the heat and suddenness of everything because his body is so sickly and frail, that even if Bucky did want him, one look at his thin arms and bony chest in broad daylight would change his mind.

Whatever Bucky sees, though, he isn't disgusted or repelled by it at all. He leans in and kisses Steve, slower and longer this time. Steve's still not great at it and fumbles, so he let's Bucky set their pace, moving with his direction. The royal treatment, Bucky had said. He was in for all manner of doting.

Bucky breaks away, kissing down Steve's jaw and neck to his collarbone. His teeth nip at the skin slightly. When Steve jolts, Bucky releases and chuckles softly against his neck.

"Do that again," Steve orders, before he can convince himself not to.

He feels Bucky scoff, a puff of hot air hitting his neck right before Bucky pinches it between his teeth. The little spark of pain travels through his whole body and Steve's toes curl.

Bucky brings his hand between Steve's legs again, palming at the insides of his thighs through his pants. Steve's hard this time, no point in denying it, but it still feels brazen and immodest and all the rest of the things old priests lectured against in church every Sunday. And if Steve is honest with himself, perhaps that's part of the thrill behind it.

Bucky turns his head and kisses Steve's jaw once more before asking, "Ready?".

"Yeah," Steve screws his eye's shut, letting the fire in his body start to spread. He exhales deeply, and nods. "Yeah."

"You'll like it," Bucky assures, working the drawstring pants off Steve's hips one-handed, "Promise."

"Okay," Steve hopes he sounds confident.

Bucky starts kissing down Steve's chest, over the ridges of his sternum, the deep hollow at the top of his rib cage. He slips his hand between them, over Steve's cock and Steve whimpers, rolling his hips in his seat reflexively. It's still a strange, new feeling, but Bucky's strokes are steady and firm like they had been the night before, setting their pace. Bucky ducks lower, laving his tongue over one of Steve's nipples. Steve _does_ jolt at that, tugging on Bucky's hair and looking down at him with no small amount of scandal. Bucky manages to smirk back up at him.

He takes his time before settling down on the floor between Steve's knees. Despite himself, all of Bucky's attending had done the trick, and even though he knew what to expect next, Steve's whole body thrummed softly with anticipation. He runs his thumb over Bucky's uncombed waves and Bucky purs softly in response.

For the last time Bucky looks right up at Steve, no smirk or teasing glance, just a solemn nod. Steve nods back. 

Bucky ducks and take's Steve's cock in his mouth, slowly at first, but it's enough for Steve, rolling his hips and moaning openly in the kitchen chair. It's different, it's _so_ different and Steve had not been expecting that, had not been expecting that things could get even _better_. Bucky's mouth is warm and wet and it's hard to believe something so simple and easy could feel so good.

It takes Bucky a few seconds to get himself steady, to figure out where to put his tongue and his teeth. He keeps his hands on Steve's thighs, pressing them open. Bucky's strength still does something powerful to Steve, even all things considered, and when Steve arches his spine off the chair back and strains against Bucky's grip, just testing, and Bucky doesn't budge. He just digs a thumb into the inside of Steve's knee and concentrates on figuring out how to work his jaw properly. 

Being held down, it unwinds Steve more than anything.

Bucky goes slow, easing forward onto Steve's cock in increments, working around the dull ache in his jaw. With his tongue he swipes along the underside and Steve moans out loud again and tremor rolls down his legs. Cautiously, Bucky works Steve into a rhythm, bobbing his head back and forth, hollowing out his cheeks. The simple approach is more than enough for Steve. He can't keep his head upright and his neck rocks back, eyes fluttering shut. The feeling is suffocating, absurdly, like pleasant asthma. Steve doesn't care if he ever breathes again, so long as this sensation never ends, so long as Bucky never stops what he's doing between his legs. He squeezes his fingers into Bucky's hair, running his nails along his scalp and panting openly. Bucky stutters and gags a little and Steve gasps.

It's comforting, really, that Bucky doesn't know what he's doing either this time. It feels fair. This is something neither of them have done before and they're both clumsy and unpracticed but it doesn't matter. At last, Steve doesn't feel anxious. He doesn't feel outmatched by Bucky. 

He's not going to last. Even after last night, it's too much too soon and Steve already feels his body eagerly rushing for the brink. Part of him doesn't want it to be over. The greedy part of him wants to stay like this for the rest of his days, just wants _more_ , continuously, without end. But the rest of him is frantically chasing that feeling from last night and he knows he can't keep it going for much longer.

Bucky's tongue moves over him one more time, firm and smooth and Steve knows he's done for. Desperately, Steve tries to tug on Bucky's hair but he's a moment too late. Before he can get his hands and arms to cooperate, he's coming, hips rolling forward in one final thrust and a broken little gasp out of his mouth. 

His body wrings out a few little aftershocks, tiny tremors as he rides out the climax. They stay that way for a second, every joint in Steve's body tensing like a spring before at last unwinding. He slumps right back against the creaking wooden chair, hand falling away from Bucky's hair, spent.

Bucky pulls off slowly, sit back on his knees and running a hand through his disheveled hair, brushing it out of his eyes. He takes a few breaths in silence, working his jaw and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Damn," he says, smiling but shaky, "think there's a couple girls out in Crown Heights that I owe apologies too."

Steve doesn't even laugh. His chest is heaving and his limbs are boneless. 

Bucky puts both his hands on either side of his his jaw, massaging small circles into the muscles under his ear. He laughs again, still amused by it. After a few trial grins and frowns to make sure his mouth and jaw are still in good working order, Bucky sits up on his knees, eye level with Steve. He's smiling, a little shakily, still working on catching his own breath. There's a faint glisten of sweat at his hairline and his mouth is red and wet. Steve looks at him and he looks back, a little starstruck. The thought comes to Steve again, _beautiful_. Beautiful and disheveled and eager. Steve can't believe he gets to have this. 

Finally having regaining the coordination, Steve leans forward from his seat with the intent to kiss him.

Bucky pulls back, just a hair, and Steve stops.

"You don't gotta kiss me right after," his says, a little hoarse. 

Embarrassed, Steve chews his lips. He hadn't thought of that.

"Do girls kiss you, after?"

"Well," Bucky hedges, "Um, yeah. One time, I suppose, yeah."

Steve presses in again, nudging Bucky's cheek with his nose. He lets his eyes slide shut and he kisses Bucky softly, hoping he's better at it this time around, hoping it coveys everything he's not sure if he can say.

It's brief, chaste, almost downright friendly which is an odd thought, given all they had accomplished in these last twelve hours. But Steve wants that, he thinks. He desperately wants things to be easy, friendly. Their lives had so much overlap between them. It was hard to imagine ever disentangling himself from Bucky. It would require so much undoing that Steve's not sure he could withstand it.

Maybe it was all happening long before either of them noticed. Years ago, when they were children, it started under the surface, brewing. Maybe this should have been expected. Maybe it was the only possible result of two lives lived so close together, side by side. Steve had felt so shocked when Bucky had kissed him last night, but now, on the other side of it all, it seemed so foolish to have been surprised. Maybe it should've been obvious. Maybe they both should've seen it coming long ago.

"You alright there, Steve?" Bucky asks softly. "You look all morose again."

Steve shakes off the thought, folding his arms over his thin chest. "Just wondering. About all this."

"Did'ja like it?" Bucky asked, preening a little.

"Yeah. Yeah I sure did, Buck," he glances out the window, noticing the linens hanging from laundry lines billowing in a strong breeze. The narrow streak of blue visible sky from their windows is bright and cloudless. The familiar street noises are echoing up through the clotheslines and brick alley walls. They're both silent for a minute as the cool, sunny, wind churns in through the open windows. Somehow, though nothing is changed or out of place, the whole tenement seems imperceptibly, irreversibly altered to Steve now. The heatwave, it seems, has finally broke.

"What are we gonna do now, Bucky?"

Bucky smiles, understanding. "Well, first things first and all, you should finish this nice breakfast I made for you. Next, we should get dressed. We're wasting the nice day in here, and I wanna stop by and see if Thompson has anymore work for deliveries coming up."

Bucky's dodge is typical, and it annoys Steve.

"You're impossible."

"Always gotta take everything so serious."

"What are we gonna do now, Bucky?"

He looks Bucky right in the eye, tired of the game. His knees must be aching on the hardwood by now. Steve let's himself look this time, swallowing down any shyness he'd had before. He stares openly at how Bucky sits in front of him, his dark hair and bare arms and the way he bites his lip and raises his eyebrows, knowing he's made an ill-timed joke when Steve is in no mood.

"I don't know, Steve. Who says we have to 'do' anything?" Bucky shifts his weight between his knees and thinks on what to say next for a moment. "Well I know this for sure, Steve: I'm sticking around, alright? You're stubborn like ten oxen and don't know when to shut up sometimes but you're the best guy I ever had in my whole damn life. Ain't that enough? And the rest, well, it's like you said. It felt normal. Like it's all been meaning to happen for some while now. And we don't have to keep it up if you don't want. I'll still stick with you anyways, Steve, no matter what. I decided on that a long while ago."

Steve is quiet. Bucky is rarely so heartfelt. 

"But," Bucky starts again, "for right now, we're gonna finish breakfast, and then get dressed, and stop by Thompson's to see if he's got delivery shifts for me this week. It's beautiful outside, I wanna go out with you."

"Okay." Steve nods. "Sounds good."


End file.
